Low life
Water torture
Jeffrey Bernard
All is quiet on the West End front. Norman has gone to the French Riviera for a holiday and I have been in bed for most of the week suffering from gastritis. If it wasn't for the pain I would be on a holiday of sorts too. I know that Norman took £1,000 with him but he will probably be back when his sandwiches run out. I won- der what on earth he does all day when he is away. How awful that I should even bother to let it cross my mind. There are are better things to contemplate.
And worse. Nowadays, whenever I am laid up, I always wonder for just how long I could be lying dead in this flat before any- body noticed. The home help, Vera, couldn't come this week but at least the Times and a pint of milk are delivered every morning. A frosted bottle of vodka stands idle in the fridge and one day next week when I do eventually open it I shall feel like Frankenstein awakening the mon- ster. But speaking of nobody finding the corpse — and where the hell is my daugh- ter? — I was very touched last night to be paid a visit by two very nice women who work in the Groucho Club. They had noticed a vacant chair in the bar.
But the boredom here is getting bad. Apart from re-reading Enemies of Promise and The Unquiet Grave I am not glued to the television but limply attached to it, alternately swearing and yawning at it. The Olympics hold no magic for me. What on earth is the point of watching the swim ming? A series of splashes. And being a sports snob I find that cycling is faintly common. What does impress me is the bravery and courage of those small teenage girls diving backwards off the high board. Interviews with losing competitors amuse me. The brave faces they put on are not convincing and I wish the word 'pressure' would be deleted from the English lan- guage. For the umpteenth time I sit watch- ing the box wondering whether to send it back to the firm I hire it from and then something really good turns up like Prime Suspect, the best police thriller I have seen, and I hang on. At least Glenda Jackson talking to a bishop yesterday put me to sleep for a while. Such an earnest woman. If she hadn't won the seat at Hampstead the Guardian would have taken her on.
And just now, to relieve the boredom, a questionaire has arrived from a hospital which had been given my address by my GP and is doing research on prostate gland troubles. Do I urinate with difficulty or ease, in the middle of the night, frequently or seldom, painfully or uncontrollably? The answer to all that is I don't urinate at all. All my body fluids disappear in the form of sweat caused by anxiety and fear of failure.
Filling in that little hospital quiz made for a brief respite, but now the pain has returned. I can only assume that tea and mineral water must be bad for you. Me, anyway. If tea is, then Wedgwood-Bens must be on his last legs and stomach lining. I might have to send a distress call to the Groucho for some soothing soup. This is like being a prisoner, one who was sen- tenced because he pleaded guilty. Where are you, Vera? The council telephoned yes- terday and offered me a temporary home help called Craig. I foolishly said I would get by without him. Craig strikes me as being a totally unsuitable name for a nurse. You wouldn't call a cat Alan, just as you wouldn't call a goldfish Nigel. Craig? No, I don't think so. I shall soldier on.
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